Dumped, Actually(34)

It’s a cliché, but being 100 per cent in love with someone does make the sex better. And if that person has a kinky side that is not averse to wearing sexy black lingerie a lot, then all the better.

Sigh.

With a picture of Samantha in her finest lingerie unwillingly fixed in my mind, I begin to massage some life into Mr Penis. This doesn’t take long, and before a minute has elapsed, I am standing proud.

Then something occurs to me. Samantha always liked to make love with a musical accompaniment. Something sexy, with a steady rhythmic beat. If I’m going to imagine being with her again for this, I might as well go the whole hog and recreate the experience as much as I can.

Leaving Mr Penis to twitch to himself for a moment, I reach into my rucksack, and pull out my MP3 player and earphones. Popping them into my ears, I select some Massive Attack to listen to. The hard, pulsating rhythm of their music is always good to have on in the background while you’re getting naughty – even if you have to ignore some of the lyrics. I stick on Mezzanine, as it’s still their best album, and return my attention to the task at hand.

It’s incredibly easy to picture having sex with Samantha. She is so burned into my subconscious that it’s no trouble at all to whisk myself back a few months to when my life was a happy place to be.

I close my eyes to better block out the world around me, making the memories even more intense. I can almost smell Samantha’s perfume, and feel the soft, supple sensation of her skin under my fingers.

I now have an erection that you could pound nails in with. This wank is not going to last long.

As I continue to relive memories of sexy times past, I begin to feel the unwanted emotions encroaching again. This is the price I knew I would pay for using my memories of Samantha to masturbate over. All the pain and sense of loss that I’ve been attempting to keep at bay comes flooding out as I fall deeper and deeper into my memories of her.

This is becoming torture.

I really should stop.

But I’m approaching the point of no return, and stopping would leave me frustrated – as well as heartbroken.

This does mean that I have to conclude this wank with tears streaming down my face, though.

I must look like a sorry, sorry sight. Quite pathetic, indeed. A grown man with his pants around his ankles, his hand gripping his penis, and a look of abject anguish on his face.

I’m eternally glad no one is around to see me. It would be incredibly embarrassing.

The music begins to reach a crescendo, as I begin to reach my own. I really want to get this over and done with now. The combination of mental pain and physical pleasure is becoming too much for me. I just need to finish up and get back to squirrel watching.

It gets closer . . .

And closer . . .

And closer . . .

As I get into the home straight, I gasp and open my eyes.

Staring down at me, with large, liquid eyes, is the most beautiful deer I have ever seen.

Its head is poking in through the tent door, which I had neglected to zip up before commencing my masturbatory trip down memory lane.

I instantly freeze in place, gazing up into those luminous liquid eyes – which have a slightly disapproving look about them.

I do not scream. I do not flail around. I am simply too shocked and appalled by this turn of events to do anything other than sit there rigid – in every sense of the word.

How long has the deer been there?

I simply do not know.

Has it just popped its head in right at this moment? Or has it been staring at me with those disapproving eyes the entire time I’ve been flogging my winky for all I’m worth?

It really is quite a stunning-looking creature, and in other circumstances – where I wasn’t gripping my willy for dear life, while ‘Teardrop’ comes to a conclusion in both of my ears – I would reach forward and give the deer a friendly pat.

I’m sure the deer would very much enjoy a friendly pat. And possibly a tickle under the chin.

Not from a raging pervert with tears coursing down his face, though. There are very few creatures on this planet that would enjoy that. With the possible exception of some Tory MPs.

I really should put my penis away.

This should be the first item on the agenda, following this strange and unwelcome turn of events. But there’s a part of my brain that is refusing to accept that any of this is actually happening, and will not relinquish its grip on what it perceives is the only real thing left in the universe. It’s as if letting go of my pulsing, purple member will force it to confront the unlovely new reality it has found itself thrust into.

It’s at this moment that the deer’s tiny offspring pokes its head into my tent as well, to see what all the fuss is about.

This is a spectacular turn of events, of course.

Now I am basically having a wank in front of Bambi.

Well, Oliver. Perhaps at this stage it might be a good idea to put your bloody penis away.

I have to wholeheartedly concur with my inner monologue. Nothing would give me greater pleasure right now than to pop the old chap back into my boxer shorts.

If only my boxer shorts weren’t currently around my ankles.

‘Could you go away, please?’ I ask the deer politely.

You might think that shouting and wildly gesticulating at them might be a better way to get them to remove their heads from my tent – and you’d probably be right. But they look like such gentle creatures. I don’t want to scare them. Far better I speak to them like an old English butler, with one shaking hand covering my rapidly shrinking penis.